


pour a drink, let's talk it over

by honeyno



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: (Rating WILL change), Andrei Lazukin - freeform, Angst, Drinking, Gen, Grown people incapable of using their words, Liza Tuktamysheva - unofficial therapist, M/M, Non-Established Relationships, Rating May Change, Stars on Ice 2019, Unresolved Emotional Tension, the B in LGBTQ stands for bilingual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 23:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19778473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyno/pseuds/honeyno
Summary: “I’m sure you’ve been told before but I think you should talk about it,” Liza says, methodically.Johnny huffs out a half-laugh and reaches to rub at his temple. Everything about this mess is about a dozen years pasttalking about it. He’s lost track of whatitis anymore.





	pour a drink, let's talk it over

**Author's Note:**

> i TOLD you i plan on reviving this ship by my own damn self in the year of the lord 2019. 
> 
> i was gonna wait and post this as a one shot but i've decided to split it and give you guys a taste of what's coming because i like building anticipation apparently. 
> 
> strap in for decade-old pining, a striking lack of clear communication and _exposition_ babeeeyyyy

“You’re not gonna call.” 

Johnny decides to speak right when Stéphane’s hand lands on his thigh, palm almost uncomfortably warm through the thin neon green satin of the pants he’d worn out. They’re out drinking because it’s another week of shows in the books and no one needs to wake up early tomorrow, so all that’s left to do is eat an obscene amount of sushi and then find a bar that would welcome nearly twenty foreigners yelling in a bunch of languages for the rest of the night. 

As far as Johnny can see, the bar is littered with people they know, castmates, everyone in good spirits and ready to celebrate surviving another week without any major injuries or breakdowns. It’s a familiar atmosphere, and one he usually thrives in, which is why Stéphane’s hand comes as no surprise — this kind of venue with this kind of crowd has been Stéphane’s main arena for years. There’s something comforting, Johnny supposes, in the dim lights and the convenient amounts of alcohol you can always rely on to excuse any and all frivolities. 

Even now, Stéphane is close enough for him to sense the faint scent of gin and tonic on his breath, his fingertips on Johnny’s thigh damp where he’d been holding his glass. 

“I’m not gonna—” he starts, audibly confused. This isn’t a new routine for them but Johnny welcoming him with anything other than a vaguely suggestive hello has clearly thrown him off guard. 

“Call,” Johnny repeats, and makes sure he doesn’t snap or sound impatient. His entire plan had been to be as matter-of-fact about this as possible. His leg gives a single twitch under Stéphane’s hand but he pointedly doesn’t pull back as he elaborates, “The other day, when you promised you’d call when we’re done here… I know you’re not gonna.” 

Stéphane has the gall to look offended, the bastard. 

“I call.” 

“You know what I mean,” Johnny rolls his eyes and reaches for his vodka soda. Stéphane’s hand doesn’t move, and he doesn’t point it out. 

There’s a difference between calling to vent about his students and his schedule and how horrible the weather gets in the fucking Alps in the winter, and  _ calling _ , like… Johnny blinks and wills the thought away. He knows what he means, and he doesn’t need his own mind to remind him that he’s not getting it, thank you very much. 

“Why are you being like this?” Stéphane asks, sliding an inch closer in the booth. The pressure of his fingertips is suddenly more intent and Johnny wishes he didn’t shudder under it. 

“I’m just saying, whatever this is, this time,” Johnny starts, using the bottom of his glass to motion vaguely between them before taking a sip. “I don’t need you making promises. I’m a big boy, I can deal without—”

“I see,” Stéphane nods. His voice is clipped around the edges, just enough that Johnny catches it and prides himself, despite his best judgement, on knowing that no one else in the room would. 

His stomach does an uncomfortable little twist and he chooses to blame it on the hand sliding up his thigh, purposefully this time, rather than Stéphane’s tone. Having said his piece, he’s ready to drop the dramatics and accept whatever comes next.

And then, just as he’s about to relax enough to telegraph permission, Stéphane’s touch withdraws and he stands back up, repeating dispassionately, 

“I see.” 

The bar is a bit too loud and Johnny’s just a bit too stunned for the one second it’d take to call after him before Stéphane slips away joins another group’s conversation, exuberant and loud once again. Johnny watches it go down instead, and finishes his drink perhaps a bit too dramatically, shuddering as the last sip hits just right. 

He’s setting the empty glass down when someone plucks it out of his hand and replaces it with another. 

“This round’s on me.”    
  
It takes Johnny a second to register that he’s being spoken to in Russian and then turns around to find Liza sitting where Stéphane had just been, one leg tucked under her as she raises her own glass. He opens his mouth to thank her, or something, when she cuts him off, 

“I know, I know, Russians and their vodka,” with a playful lilt in her voice which gets him to laugh. “You’re welcome. Cheers. Now, what’s going on?” 

Johnny shrugs and turns a little to face her, angling his line of sight away from the makeshift dancefloor where everyone else is gathering. 

“Just a couple of sad old men,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. He’s aware of the way he straightens his back and puts a little affectation on his words as if he’s a Chekhov heroine and gets to indulge in the melodrama without letting any of it feel real.

Liza buys exactly none of it. 

“You’re not  _ old _ ,” she argues, and when he shrugs again, she looks past his shoulder and to the group of people Johnny is decisively  _ not  _ looking at. 

Stéphane is at his best when given an audience and though whatever he’s saying is practically indistinguishable against the music and the chatter, it’s his voice that fills the beat of silence between them. Johnny almost laughs at the irony and then chases the sound of Stéphane’s laugh with another sip.

“Oh—” Liza starts, her eyes refocusing on him. Her voice is more careful next, like she’s really making sure that she’s saying the right thing. “I always thought that was just… rumors?” 

“Whatever you know is probably not true,” Johnny says, making sure to catch her eyes and hold them this time. 

Perhaps it’s because only a few people at the bar could ever understand if they were to listen in, or because she’s looking at him like she  _ really _ wants to talk, or just because a few drinks in and with the phantom imprint of a familiar palm burning on his thigh he’s feeling particularly vulnerable, but Johnny caves. Making confessions in languages that are not quite his own has always been easier. 

“What’s the truth, then?” 

Johnny could give her the full timeline: fifteen years of his life, give or take some change, every single heartbreak and unreasonable promise that never should have been made, Stéphane cameos in almost every snapshot memory, the one habit he’s never tried to kick. But in reality, flash-forward to today, none of it seems to line up to make one full story. So he laughs again, helpless, 

“Honestly, I’d tell you if I knew.” 

“You don’t have to tell me  _ everything _ ,” Liza prompts, and Johnny has to wonder where she learned to act therapist that well. He sure as hell wasn’t anywhere near as careful with other people when he was twenty two. Which, come to think of it, is probably part of the whole story, too. 

“I’m not sure half of it is my story to tell,” he says finally. “It’s just, uh— you know how stars work, right? The whole… orbiting around each other thing? Like—” 

He puts his glass down so he can stick his pointer fingers out and move them around the space between them, the two going in uncoordinated patterns around each other and only meeting briefly whenever the figure eights he’s drawing in the air get confusing. 

“...I don’t really know how stars work,” he says next, dropping his hands into his lap, and rolls his eyes with it, because of all of his confessions, this one might be the stupidest. “But what I’m trying to say is—”

“You’re a star,” Liza deadpans, and she looks so incredibly serious behind the rim of her glass that Johnny’s heart swells with adoration as he lets out an incredulous laugh. 

“Yeah, I’m a star,” he agrees, and there it is again, that affectation, the heroine draped over a chaise lounge who gets to indulge in all the things that she’s feeling in a way Johnny doesn’t allow himself as often as people might think. “The trouble is, he’s  _ also  _ a star and stars move—”

“You just said you don’t know shit about stars.” 

“No, but I know  _ him _ .” 

Liza lowers her glass and just looks at him for a second, her lips rounding out in an absolutely soundless “ _ Oh. _ ” 

“What I’m saying is,” Johnny takes a deep breath and carries on because that door’s been open now so he might as well step through it. “We’ve been— orbiting around each other for so long I don’t know how to do anything else. And life has to happen around it, and… well, you don’t need me to tell you how our lives work. It’s— whatever you’ve heard about us, I assure you, we’ve never had the time to make it happen.” 

“Have you tried?” Liza asks, moving a little closer as some louder, more aggressive song takes over the speakers. 

Johnny shakes his head. 

“ _Life_ got in the way,” he says quietly because his dirty laundry’s mostly public domain and it’s easier to blame his own past choices than any of Stéphane’s. Still, he adds, “I’ve never been sure if he’d want to—” 

“I’m sure you’ve been told before but I think you should  _ talk _ about it,” Liza says, methodically. 

Johnny huffs out a half-laugh and reaches to rub at his temple. Everything about this mess is about a dozen years past _ talking about it. _ He’s lost track of what  _ it  _ is anymore. 

“What you just saw was us talking about it,” he says instead. It’s about as close as they’d gotten in years, anyway. “And how would you know what we need? You’re young, your beautiful man’s wonderful...” 

It’s Liza’s turn to shrug.

“I just know talking helps,” she reasons, like it’s that simple, and then adds casually, “Andrei  _ is  _ beautiful, isn’t he? I’d probably share if you asked nicely.”

Johnny nearly chokes, from emotional whiplash and vodka going the wrong way down his throat as he laughs into his glass alike. He heaves for a second and then reaches up to wipe droplets of vodka from his chin, putting in his best effort to make the gesture as faux-suggestive as possible. 

“Elizaveta Sergeyevna, don’t make promises you won’t keep,” he smirks, grateful for the joke and the distraction, and for how his heart feels just a little lighter now as he watches Liza’s eyes go wide. She’s probably not used to people matching her speed to play along. 

“Who’s to say I won’t keep my promise?” she manages finally, perhaps half a second too late for perfect delivery. 

“Please, you don’t wanna get involved in this mess,” Johnny argues. 

Liza gives him a long, studious look, and then nods. 

“You’re right, I don’t.” 

“Keep your beautiful man to yourself,” Johnny agrees, and it’s part of the bit, still, except it’s also probably advice and he can’t wait to be alone in his hotel room so he can get properly mad at his subconscious for sneaking that up on him. He sighs, and then raises his glass to toast her again. “Thanks for listening to me, it’s— that was really kind of you.” 

Liza’s glass clinks against his own and they drink, and then she slides even closer in the booth so she can hug him, unexpected but warm and long. It occurs to Johnny that this is where he’d usually probably ask her to keep all of this private,  _ and that includes your beautiful Andrei,  _ but somehow he doesn’t think he needs to.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> hey if you made it this far, let me know by dropping me a note in comments! it truly, genuinely makes my day 
> 
> (title is from the song one day robots will cry by cobra starship)


End file.
